


Down in the Dumps

by hardlyawake



Category: New Girl (TV 2011)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nick Miller is a good bro, Platonic Cuddling, Schmidt Needs a Hug, during the bunking together era, seasonal depression, set in season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28524537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyawake/pseuds/hardlyawake
Summary: Schmidt is struggling with a bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) on his day off. His best friends are there to at least try and make it more sufferable.
Relationships: Jessica Day & Schmidt (New Girl), Nick Miller & Schmidt (New Girl), The Loft & Schmidt (New Girl)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Down in the Dumps

**Author's Note:**

> TW: brief talk of suicidal thoughts!

Schmidt didn’t have many days where he didn’t get out of bed. Hangovers, one night stands, and nasty bouts of the flu were the only excuses that Nick could think of after ten years. 

For such an innocuous, mediocre December day in Los Angeles, though, Schmidt sure did seem down.

Nick had awoken at his usual time -- quarter til noon -- and was surprised to find Schmidt still heavily asleep on the bed across from his. After taking a little too long to remember the day of the week, Nick wondered why Schmidt hadn’t already hit the gym on his day off.

“Hey,” He greeted groggily. “You die?”

Schmidt made an incoherent noise in response, which Nick interpreted as a negative.

“Right on,” Nick replied, “I’m gonna go eat Chinese food for breakfast.”

Even after Nick had done so, and finished a solid five episodes of  _ Lost _ on the couch, he returned to a room with one sad, sleepy Schmidt.

A glance at his alarm clock gave the time as 2:30pm -- and Nick  _ knew _ Schmidt had gone to bed before midnight. He sat down on the edge of Schmidt’s bed with a frown.   
  
“Hey,” he greeted once again. “Kiddo?”

Schmidt was definitely awake, but he was turned away from Nick and his shoulders were all tensed up. He faced Nick with the kind of tight face that showed he was holding back tears.

Immediately, Nick felt he was treading unknown waters. Schmidt didn’t just stay alone in bed all day, in their dark and dingy room. Not unless he was uber sad, but when Schmidt was sad he told everyone about it -- su struggle es el struggle del Loft, and all that. This was different in a way that made Nick’s stomach feel heavy.

“What’s up, man?” Nick asked, pushing through his hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

Schmidt shrugged, turning on to his back, and gazed up at the ceiling instead of making eye contact. “Nothing, really.”

“Bullshit, Schmidtty,” Nick countered, somehow still gently. He shifted on the bed awkwardly. “Is it about Cece?”

Schmidt shook his head definitively.

“About work?” Nick tried.

Another definite no from Schmidt. 

Nick sighed, watching his best friend stare intently at their stupid popcorn ceiling. “...Do you want a hug?” He asked.

Schmidt’s face scrunched up a little more, but he said nothing; as if he were taking extra care to not let the dams break.

Nick rephrased his question, clearing his throat. “Do you  _ need _ a hug?”

With that, Schmidt was up on his butt and letting himself fall into Nick. A gross-sounding, repressed sob noise escaped his throat. 

“Easy, buddy,” Nick said. He slung an arm around Schmidt and indulged his friend’s near-burrowing into his neck. “ ‘m right here.”

Nick must have forgotten to close the door, because when he looked up he saw Jess leaning in their doorway, so worried her eyes were watering. Winston hung back a few feet behind, brushing out Ferguson while nonchalantly staring into the room.

_ Five minutes _ , Nick mouthed to them both, holding up five fingers for emphasis. The two had disappeared from sight by the time Schmidt pulled back.

“You wanna talk to me, bud?” Nick offered, “I miss you annoying the crap out of me, there’s nothing else going on in here.” He tapped his head, “It’s just silence.”

“I’d gladly trade this steaming garbage pile for silence.” Schmidt replied, back to his usual bitter tone. “It’s like my entire body is working against me.”

Nick cocked an eyebrow, feeling for a moment like a detective in  _ The Pepperwood Chronicles _ , “You got the shits?” He asked seriously.

Schmidt gave him a look of annoyed disbelief. “What is wrong with you? I’m talking about my brain being filled with -- with -- stupid things.”

“What does that mean, stupid things?” Nick asked.

Schmidt looked down at his bedsheets, avoidant again. “Just uh-- suicidal.. thoughts and things of that nature, you know.” He said reluctantly.

“Woah, woah.” Nick replied. He felt his body tense up like there was some kind of predator in the room, and unintentionally raised his volume. “Since when was this a thing, Schmidt?”

“I don’t know,” Schmidt replied, “Sometimes I just wake up like that.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Nick countered, “I’ve known you forever, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Well I don’t exactly show it off,  _ Nicholas _ .” Schmidt snapped. “It’s a little humiliating, if you haven’t caught on.”

Nick found his stomach in knots all of a sudden, and sighed. “I’m not annoyed with you.” He clarified, “I just didn’t know you were hurting, man.”

Schmidt nodded his understanding.

“Do you talk to somebody about this?” Nick asked. He watched Schmidt picking apart a stitch on his duvet.

“Mhm. I see my therapist -- Sheila,” He smiled a little, launching into a rave, “She’s fantastic, her office is on the top floor and her tissues smell like cucumbers.”

Nick blinked at him. “But she works, though, right? This lady actually helps you?”

“Of course she does.” Schmidt replied, like the thing about cucumber-tissues somehow conveyed that.    
  


“Good.” Nick felt a little worry leave his body. He nudged Schmidt’s hand aside and pulled out the rest of the stitch for him -- if they were going to mess up a blanket, he decided, they would be doing it in solidarity. “You gonna see Sheila soon?”

Schmidt nodded. “I have an appointment next week.”

Nick frowned. “Is there any way you could move that up?”

Schmidt considered this, nodding again. “I could check.”

“You do that,” Nick agreed, standing up. “And I’m going to come back here with some warm towels.”

Schmidt looked up at him with wide eyes. “Clean laundry pile?” He said in awe.

“This one time, you may dive face first into our laundry -- fresh out of the dryer.” Nick confirmed. He grinned at Schmidt fist-pumping in response.

Schmidt was a bit more awake by the time Nick returned — he’d made his bed and opened the blinds, but he was still sitting there on his own, looking tired.

“You clean fast,” Nick remarked. He dropped the load of towels onto Schmidt’s bed and gave him a nod. 

“I have four roommates,” Schmidt mumbled in response, only the end was muffled as he face-planted into the laundry.

“As good as you thought it’d be?” Nick asked.

Schmidt nuzzled his head against the pile, smiling contently. “Better.”

Nick couldn’t hide his own smile, partially amused and partially relieved to see Schmidt happier.

“You uh,” Nick started, still uncomfortable breaching the topic, “Do you wanna be alone? Today?”

Schmidt shook his head decisively. “God no.”

As if on cue (or as if they were covertly waiting in the hall), Jess and Winston entered the room, cat in tow.

“Hey, Schmidt,” Jess greeted casually. Her weepy, worried face was replaced by a friendly grin. “Any big plans for today? I am so tired of checking my work email.”

Schmidt didn’t bother lifting himself up from the towel pile. “I’d rather chew off my own arm than leave this bed.” He replied honestly.

“I feel that,” Winston chimed in. He took a seat on Nick’s bed and added, “Furgie missed you.”

Furguson was rubbing against Schmidt’s bed as they spoke, illustrating the point.

“That’s cool,” Jess replied. She pointed to some yarn Schmidt hadn’t noticed she brought in, “I was gonna crank out some knitting today. May I?”

She gestured to the small empty space remaining on Schmidt’s bed, and received a nod of approval.

Within a few seconds, Nick watched his friend’s duvet disappear beneath towels, Schmidt, a fuzzy cat, and Jess with her yarn hoard. 

Winston had nonchalantly turned on the boys’ radio, tuning into the Bears v. Lions game and scrolling through his phone on Nick’s still-unmade bed.

Nick smiled at the sight fondly. 

“Alright, I’m cutting you off.” He announced after a moment. He pushed a reluctant Schmidt up off the towels. “These gotta get folded.”

“You’re a cruel man,” Schmidt whined. He leaned back and buried his face in a pillow beside Jessica.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Nick replied. He picked up a ball of yarn and tossed it at Schmidt. “Have Jess teach you how to knit or something.”

Unable to foresee the consequences of his actions, Nick watched in amusement as Furguson pounced at Schmidt’s chest, clawing at the yarn ball.

“Cruel!” Schmidt repeated indignantly. His laughter indicated a different sentiment entirely.

The four fell into a quiet rhythm within a few minutes — Nick transported his towels to his own bed and grumbled with Winston about the game on the radio. Schmidt picked up basic knitting pretty quickly, because of course that metrosexual asshole did, and he and Jess were planning out a scarf.

Occasionally, Winston would comment on Schmidt’s sloppy stitchwork, or Jess would groan at the Bears’ victory. The sun had set over the hills by the time Nick got fed up.

“Jess,” Nick said, annoyed, “You know you don’t have to hate the Bears just because Coach does, right? He likes you already.”

“You guys talking about me?” Coach’s voice came from the door.

The four roommates looked up to see their fifth leaning against the doorframe, a grocery bag in hand. “I work all day and I come home to this? I can’t believe you guys are having a party without me.”

“I don’t know if this counts as a party.” Winston commented. He shook his leg to try and get stray yarn off of it. “Our team’s tanking, man.”

“Not for long,” Coach assured him. He flopped down on Nick’s unmade bed a little too comfortably — Nick cringed to think that he might actually have to wash his sheets more than once in a month. “Bears don’t make it past the third quarter, I bet you five dollars.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Jess chimed in from the other bed.

Schmidt set down his pair of needles incredulously. “Whose side are you on?”

“Winning side, baby.” Jess replied, smiling to herself.

Nick made a disgusted noise. “Can we jar Jess?”

“I think she’s absorbing Schmidt’s douchebaggery by proximity.” Winston agreed.

Coach exhaled heavily. “Is anyone else hungry? I got some beers at the store.”

He lifted the grocery bag in his hand for emphasis.

“I could go for pizza,” Schmidt suggested, almost meekly. He was rarely the advocate for greasy food, or anything he didn’t cook for the loft. Clearly, an off day was at hand.

“Ooh, pizza.” Jess gushed. 

Nick asked, “Half-pep half-cheese?”

“Always.” Coach confirmed.

The Bears game had drawn to a close by the time Nick went to retrieve their pizza from the delivery guy. 

He returned to his room already grumbling, “Where am I gonna sit?”

To his left, Winston and Coach were sprawled across his messy bed, beside a neatly folded pile of towels. On his right, Schmidt was half-asleep and holding Ferguson to his chest — while Jess finished their scarf.

“Move your towels, goy-boy.” Schmidt commented lazily.

“You better watch yourself, cat-chest.” Nick huffed.

Jess made a face. “Is that a real insult?”

Winston shook his head, sitting up to open a beer. “Nick just gets wounded when Schmidt calls him a goy.”

“Shut up,” Nick replied, a little too defensively. He handed the pizza box to Coach. “I’m gonna go put away towels like a man.”

Nick only returned once the other three roommates had bid Schmidt goodnight — he had opted for eating pizza by himself after some taunting on the way he consumed it. It wasn’t his  _ fault _ if he got so excited about hot pepperoni that he scarfed it down “like a rabid wolf”.

“Hey,” Nick greeted, flopping down onto his now-empty bed.

“Wolf-shame?” Schmidt asked through a mouthful of food.

“I know you won’t judge me, Schmidtty.” Nick replied. He picked up a piece of lukewarm pizza and began devouring it.

“Oh, I am always judging you.” Schmidt responded. “My opinion just can’t be lowered.”

“That’s sweet.” Nick chuckled. He made his way through the remaining two slices in the box and drop-kicked the box at Schmidt.

Schmidt dodged out of the way, watching the cardboard box bounce onto his bed. “Animal,” he accused.

“I’ll take it to the garbage if you go clean up for bed.” Nick said.

Schmidt cocked an eyebrow. “It’s barely seven.”

“Yeah, and I know you haven’t gone to the bathroom all day. What if all your shit builds up and stops your heart?”

Schmidt’s eyes widened with horror at the idea. “Is that what goes on in your head, Nick?”

“Get outta here!” Nick replied. 

Schmidt raised his hands defensively, hefting himself up out of bed. “I’m gonna have nightmares tonight.”

Nick smiled to himself, watching his friend traipse out of their room. Schmidt was still in his pajamas, but somehow managed to look neat — they were probably luxury pajamas, or something.

While Schmidt was busy, Nick figured he would finish tidying their room and make sure the kitchen was clean. Schmidt had been continually on dish duty since Jess moved in — they’d divvied up the chores in giant chunks, and Schmidt had taken it upon himself to be the sole janitor of the kitchen.

Four years in, Nick had often wished he’d chosen something besides taking out the garbage as his forever-chore. He had an old man’s back.

Nick had just finished replacing their hampers when Schmidt returned — towel wrapped around his waist, his old pajamas in hand.

“Who are you and what have you done with Nick?” Schmidt asked.

“Don’t get used to it,” Nick replied, “Cleaning is for special occasions only.”

Schmidt rolled his eyes and took to finding a fresh set of pajamas. “How have you made it this far in life?”

Nick shrugged, though Schmidt couldn’t see him. “Mostly with your help.”

There was a moment of touched silence as the two realized the sweetness of that sentiment — interrupted by Nick coughing. 

“You wanna finish watching that show we started last week?” He asked, desperate to change the subject.

Schmidt let out a loud “Ha!” sound. He tugged a nightshirt over his head. “You’re speaking of  _ Blacklist _ ?”

Nick nodded.

“Finished it yesterday.” Schmidt said.

“Dude!” Nick cried. “That was supposed to be our show. You said you’d wait for me.”

“I had different values then.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Nick scoffed. He pointed towards Schmidt’s bed. “Sit your ass down, we’re rewatching it.”

“I gotta hang up my—“

Nick grabbed Schmidt’s damp towel from him unceremoniously. “I’ll put it back, just pull up Netflix.”

“Are you mad at me?” Schmidt called as Nick stormed down the hallway. When he got no response, he shrugged to himself. “Fake-mad, then.”

The pair settled down on Schmidt’s bed, dimming their lights and turning down his covers. 

Nick even slid under the covers for once, instead of doing his personal space thing where he sat on top of them. 

“Does this mean I can turn on my fairy lights?” Schmidt ventured.

Nick spared a disgusted look at the wall behind them. “Don’t push it.”

“I’m not pushing it, I’m just saying the lighting would match the mood—“

“Oh my god, everything you say is so creepy.” Nick interrupted. He desperately hit the spacebar on his laptop, full-screening the show. “Shut up and watch.”

Schmidt hid a smug grin and watched. He did that thing where he kept alluding to the fact that “something big happens this episode” every episode, but Nick let it slide on account of the day he was having.

They were nearing the season finale when Nick heard a quiet sniffle far too close to his ear. He paused the show and looked at Schmidt.

“You crying?” He asked. He once again felt like he was treading water, but maybe he knew the ocean better this time.

Schmidt didn’t say anything, but he didn’t break out in full sobs either. “I feel shitty again.” He mumbled.

“Is it something  _ I _ did, or—?”

Schmidt shook his head. 

“You just...don’t know why, huh?” Nick asked.

“Yeah.” Schmidt answered, sounding every bit as dissatisfied with it as Nick felt.

“That’s cool,” Nick replied. He reached out a hand to tousle Schmidt’s hair. “No pressure.”

“You’re messing up my overnight pomade.” Schmidt complained half heartedly.

Nick shut his laptop and set it on a bedside table. “I think you’ll live.”

“Forty dollars an ounce, Nick.” Schmidt countered.

“I’m not talking to you about hair products again.”

Schmidt laughed through something wet in his throat. Nick recognized it as the specific kind of laugh one could only have when they were crying right before — it was a good sound.

“I think I’m crashing here tonight.” He said. “My bed is full of dude-smell and pizza crumbs.”

“You’ll get no pity from me.” Schmidt replied, “Civilized people use napkins.”

“So what,” Nick argued. He reached over to switch off the only light remaining, “You and Jess are the only civilized people in this apartment?”

“Is that a real question?” Schmidt replied. 

Nick shook his head and burrowed against his pillow. Admittedly, Schmidt’s sheets did smell much cleaner and the lack of crumbs felt truly luxurious.

Nick was nearing snoring territory when he felt a tug at his arm. “Huh?”

“You’re hogging the blankets.” Schmidt whispered angrily.

“Go back to sleep, Schmidtty.” Nick said groggily. With a smirk Schmidt couldn’t see, he rolled over and pulled the covers with him.

“You want some of this?” Schmidt asked in his quiet, angry voice. He pushed at Nick’s side, perhaps with the intent to be menacing.

Nick deliberated in his mind whether he would enjoy sleeping or winning more. With a sigh, he rolled back towards Schmidt and offered him a corner of the duvet.

Nick felt Schmidt shimmy back under the blankets, nudging close enough to be fully covered. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Nick whispered back. He tried to make out Schmidt’s face in the dark. “You gonna be able to sleep?”

“Maybe if you stop talking.” Schmidt replied petulantly. His voice was muffled by the bed.

“Do you feel better?” Nick asked quietly.

Schmidt pondered this for so long, Nick thought he’d almost fallen asleep. “Better than I did this morning.” He settled on.

“Good.” Nick whispered back. 

“Thank you,” Schmidt repeated sleepily.

“What for?”

“You know what.” Schmidt answered. Cautiously, he tucked his head against Nick’s shoulder.

Ignoring the whiff of lavender pomade, Nick smiled to himself. He gently rested his head on top of Schmidt’s.

“If you wake up first,” He whispered, “Leave immediately, okay? I don’t want Jess taking pictures.”

If Schmidt was still conscious at that point, he gave no indication. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Just a reminder that if you’re struggling with seasonal depression, you’re not alone — it can affect anyone, especially in these times. Reach out for help if you need it; you’ve got people who love you. <3 
> 
> comments make my day!


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